


Other Outlets

by PlantsAreNeat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Relief, Sexual Tension, Unrequited Love, not explicit but it happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 12:23:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1304782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlantsAreNeat/pseuds/PlantsAreNeat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly and John have something in common, and one late night, they figure it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Other Outlets

John and Molly leaned against a bench in the morgue, sipping tepid coffees in paper canteen cups. It was 2AM, and both were coming off a very long day. They stared into space, each absorbed in their own thoughts. Across the room, Sherlock scrutinized the corpse on the slab with his pocket magnifier, gloved hands occasionally prodding the cold belly flesh to watch it rock and then go still.

“Molly!” he called. She started, a faint blush creeping onto her cheeks. 

“Er, yes?” she replied.

“This one’s not fat enough. Do you have a male that’s morbidly obese? Excessively corpulent? A huge tub of lard?”

“Um, yeah, I think so. Let me go check. I’ll just take Mr. Jones along with me, then?”

“If you wish.” Sherlock waved her away and strode off to the lab to prepare slides for the microscope. John gave her a tired smile as she rolled the gurney past him, then stepped ahead to hold the doors open for her. Molly smiled back in thanks. 

When she returned fifteen minutes later, Sherlock was absorbed in whatever was under his magnified gaze. John had found a chair in the lab and sat with legs stretched out, ankles and arms crossed, chin tucked into his chest. His eyes were closed, but they opened alertly as she banged the doors open and rolled in a body bag that strained at the seams. 

Sherlock looked up at the sound of the bag being unzipped. He stalked over to the slab, where a slack, pink mountain was revealed. He clasped his hands in front of his mouth gleefully and flashed a broad smile. “Oh! You have outdone yourself, Molly. John, the ropes!”

John produced coils of rope from a bag on the floor and handed them to Sherlock, who began uncoiling them and examining the corpse with his magnifier. John stepped back over to where Molly stood, pink and breathing fast at the compliment. 

“We’d best step back. You know how he gets.” John said. She nodded; she did know, she’d watched him for years.

They ended up leaning back against their bench, watching as Sherlock avidly bound ropes around the enormous arms and legs. Molly was still flushed, lips parted, as she followed his movements with her eyes. When Sherlock climbed up onto the slab to wrap a rope around the torso, his fitted trousers straining and suit jacket riding up to reveal a surprisingly rounded posterior, she bit her lip and looked away. She’d better get herself in hand before John noticed how turned on she was. 

John was not looking at her. He was staring at Sherlock, just like she had been. His lips were a little parted, and his breath was coming a touch fast. He gasped a little and shifted his stance minutely as Sherlock strained mightily to pull the bindings on the corpse tight enough to lift the legs to meet the arms up over its back. He licked his lips. Molly stared at him, taken aback. 

“You want him, too,” she said quietly, and John jerked his gaze to her face. He took in her flush, her bitten lips, her widened eyes. His mouth twisted with chagrin.

“Caught me,” he sighed.

“Takes one to know one. Some nights I feel it more than others.” She smiled self-consciously. “Some nights, well,” She waved over at the slab, where Sherlock, curls disheveled and flying, suit jacket shed and sleeves rolled up, was manhandling the bound cadaver into a seemingly impossible position. She took a deep breath. “Some nights I have to pinch myself not to strip off and jump on him.” She blushed furiously and cursed herself for oversharing. 

John’s wry smile widened, full of rueful self-knowledge. “Been there.”

Molly gaped at him. “How do you cope? I mean, you live with him, you’re with him all the time!” she burst out, then cut her eyes over to Sherlock, who continued his work on the corpse, oblivious to their conversation. She could not imagine how hard it would be to constantly hide her feelings; she couldn’t even do it successfully for an hour in the morgue. 

“I try to find other outlets for it,” John said. “Punching criminals is a good one. And I’m no stranger to relieving, er… tensions… on my own.” He cleared his throat. “Or with other company.” He looked away as he blushed up his neck to his ears and scratched at an eyebrow. 

Molly smothered a nervous giggle, flustered to think of John finding relief as she had done after so many of her encounters with the mad detective. She turned back to watch Sherlock where he had begun prodding at ropes where they pressed into the mounds of flesh, whipping out his magnifier to examine them more closely. He hummed happily as he clambered up onto the slab again, bent almost double to observe the ropes as they cut across the flabby expanse. Beside her, John blew out a sigh that sounded a little desperate. They watched Sherlock work, each knowing the other was seeing what they saw, each of them reacting when his fine shirt clung to muscular arms, when the tailored trousers outlined the curve and crease of his arse, when his deep voice rumbled observations to himself. Side by side they wound tighter and tighter, resonating to the other’s arousal and appreciation of their shared desire.

Molly reached a snapping point first. She shocked herself by saying, “there’s a broom cupboard on this floor.” John turned to regard her, perplexed. “The door locks from the inside. Perhaps there’s some other outlets in there?” 

After a moment, John smiled and took her hand.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It didn’t happen every time they met in the morgue. Some nights were dull, plodding work, or hectic rushed urgency with lives in the balance, no time for introspection. 

Then there were the special nights; when Sherlock was high on a case, exhibiting all the charisma and brilliance that captivated them yet oblivious to their presence, when they leaned shoulder to shoulder on a bench in the lab and felt the pressure rising. They would watch together, sharing the buzz and the tension and the torture until they couldn’t take anymore; then one or the other would murmur their code, and they’d go seek other outlets.


End file.
